Crackpot Scheme
by AlwaysVictory
Summary: AU. Crack. Oneshot. "Please. Don't do anything stupid," he said. "You're wearing a pair of tights over your head, and pointing a wand and a bat at an unarmed woman, while attempting to rob a bookshop – and you think I'm doing something stupid?" He touched his head a bit self-consciously. "It's not tights. It's a stocking." "Oh, well," she muttered. "That makes all the difference."


A/N. Hello and welcome! So, this is just a writing exercise. I wanted to practice writing something short, since I seem to have a problem with that :)

It's crack, folks. No part of this story is to be taken seriously.

Huge thanks to **_Kneazle_** for beta reading.

 **Disclaimer:** _Harry Potter_ and all its characters belong to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury, and Scholastic respectively. _Star Trek_ is owned by Gene Roddenberry, CBS, and Paramount Pictures. All canon characters, plots, and situations are not owned by me, and I make no profit from this story.

* * *

Hermione Granger sat on the floor, her robes twisted, her shoulder and head throbbing.

 _I might have a concussion_ , she concluded as she massaged her temples, taking note of the slight ringing in her ears, nausea, and difficulty concentrating.

The door slammed behind her, causing her to wince, and all the noise in the shop became muffled. She looked up and saw a man standing above her, a wand in one hand and a Beater's Bat in the other.

She stared at him. "What are you going to do with me?"

"Shut up."

He was tall and thin, his face obscured by a tan stocking – an odd choice for a wizard.

"You don't have to be rude. I'm only asking."

"Please. Don't do anything stupid," he spoke with a thick accent.

 _Eastern European_ , Hermione thought, doing her best to focus on the here and now.

"You're wearing a pair of tights over your head, and pointing a wand _and_ a bat at an unarmed woman, while attempting to rob a _bookshop_ – and you think _I'm_ doing something stupid?"

He touched his head a bit self-consciously. "It's not tights. It's a stocking."

They flinched at the sound of furniture crashing next door. A scream and muffled cursing followed.

"Oh, well," she muttered. "That makes all the difference."

She closed her eyes and let out a breath, trying to figure out how she'd gotten to this point.

It had started out like any other morning. She'd just been in the middle of a spell to unlock the shutters, when three men with stockings over their heads burst into the bookshop. One of them disarmed her faster than she could say 'Hello,' and another grabbed her by the wrist and wrenched it painfully behind her back. She lost her footing and hit her head hard against the nearby bookshelf. Then her attacker pushed her towards the man who had disarmed her and proceeded to barrel into Mr. Crakerpot's office, while the third robber set up wards around the shop.

Everything became a confusing vortex of noise and action. She barely registered the tall man dragging her into the storage closet before she collapsed on the floor.

Hermione gingerly rubbed the lump on her head and straightened up, her eyes never leaving her captor. "You know, you could lower your . . . weapons. I'm hardly going to overpower you."

He tilted his head and looked at her for a long moment. "You von't move?"

"I won't move. Cross my heart and hope to die."

"I'm not going to kill you. And why vould you _hope_ to die?" he asked, disbelief registering in his voice. "Are you crazy?"

She rolled her eyes. "It's just a Muggle saying used to emphasize the truthfulness and sincerity of what one is saying."

He kept staring at her.

"Oh, forget it. Look," she said, raising her hands up in surrender. "I'm just going to sit here on the floor, okay?"

In answer, he lowered his bat and glanced towards the door, but kept his wand trained on her. He tapped his foot. He was clearly nervous.

When he spoke, his tone was almost apologetic. "This von't take long. They just vant your boss to unlock the safe."

"The safe? What safe?"

"The one that is supposed to be in the manager's office," he said, jabbing his thumb towards Mr. Crakerpot's office. "Under the Fidelius Charm."

Hermione laughed. It sounded too loud to her ears. He seemed vaguely surprised by her lack of alarm – as far as it was possible to tell someone's true emotion through a film of twenty denier.

"I don't know where you get your information from, mister, but there is no bloody safe in this store."

"You lie."

She shrugged, the motion causing her to wince. "Fine, don't believe me. But I think you lot are being daft for wanting to rob a _bookshop_. It's not like we sell jewellery here. Besides, even if there were a safe here under the Fidelius Charm, the disclosure of its location must happen _voluntarily_. You can't coerce it by means of Veritaserum, Legilimency, Cruciatus, or Imperius Curses. Don't you people have any knowledge of how the Fidelius Charm works? Honestly, you lot make terrible robbers."

He stared at her for a moment. A couple of times he made to grab the door handle, as if considering leaving the storage closet to talk to his companions.

Hermione slowly moved closer to the wall and leaned against it, stretching out her legs in front of her. He started pacing the small room.

"You're wasting your time," she said. "Mr. Crakerpot most likely keeps his valuables in Gringotts or –"

"Crackpot?" he interrupted in disbelief. "Is his last name really Crackpot? Poor man." He sounded amused.

Hermione snorted. "It's _Craker_ pot. And yes, with a name like Harold Dumsfield Crakerpot . . ." She sniggered. "Yes, it's quite unfortunate."

She cleared her throat. "Anyway, as I was going to say, if there really were a safe here – which there isn't, trust me, I know – it's not like Mr. Crakerpot is a bloody Donald Trump."

Just as Hermione was finishing her last words, loud crashing came from next door, making her last words difficult to make out.

"Vho is this duck, and vhy vould someone name it Donald?" the man with a stocking sounded confused.

She fixed him with a disbelieving stare at first. "Oh. _Oh!_ No, it's _Trump_. Donald Trump. Donald Duck is a cartoon character, and Donald Trump is this insanely rich person."

He kept staring at her. "Rich, you say?" he finally uttered. "Must be a Pureblood then. Although, it's a strange name for a Pureblood."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "He's a Muggle."

He looked at her for what felt like ages, before shaking his head. "Ve are not here for the money, anyvay."

"What are you after then?"

"I can't tell you. It's a secret."

She clapped her hands together. "Oh, I'm good at keeping secrets! I won't tell anyone even if they torture me."

He merely continued pacing the small room.

"Oh, very well," she said disappointedly as she watched him.

One, two, three steps, and turn. One, two, three, turn.

"I'm Hermione, by the way," she stated after a few moments of silence.

He paused in his pacing. "What kind of name is that? Hermy-own?"

"Her-my-oh-nee," she said slowly and clearly. Then added a bit defensively, "And it's a fine name. My parents like Shakespeare."

"Herm-own-ninny."

"Close enough," she said, grinning.

"And I'm V – vait, I can't tell you my name."

She shrugged. "Fine then, Mr. Robber. Tell me, do you do this often?"

"Do what?"

"Rob bookshops?"

He hesitated, then sighed. "This is my first time."

"Oh, how exciting!" She rubbed her hands together. "I don't think I've ever been anyone's first!"

He looked at her as if she'd gone completely mad.

"So how did you end up here?" she continued. "Doing this?"

He walked towards her and sat opposite her, dropping the Beater's Bat between his knees. "I made a mistake. A big one. Igor – the tall one – helped me fix it. And now he say this is the only vay I can repay him."

They winced as they heard another crash next door.

"I'm sorry about what he did to you earlier. Your head is fine?"

"It will be. I think."

He fanned himself with a hand.

"Hot?" she asked.

"A bit."

"What's the deal with a stocking anyway? I would've expected something else from wizards."

"Ask Igor. He said ve had to vear this."

The small storage closet was indeed getting stuffy. Hermione began to peel off her robes.

"Vhat are you doing?" he asked, his voice slightly squeaky.

"Oh, don't get too excited. I'm not naked underneath my robes." She rolled her eyes and deposited her robes beside her. "It really is getting hot here."

He glanced at her tank top and a skirt, then looked away, still fanning himself.

"You could always take that thing off your head," she suggested. "And you've got sweat marks. On your robes." She pointed and looked down. "That'll be also the adrenaline, I expect. Take deep breaths," she instructed, and then reached for his hand. "Let me check your pulse."

He merely stared at her.

"I'm a student at St. Mungo's Academy," she said.

"You're training to be a medivitch?"

"That's right. What, did you think I want to work in a bookshop for the rest of my life? Don't get me wrong, I love books and all, but this job isn't very challenging. So, it's just temporary. Tuition is expensive, you know."

He was slowly extending his hand towards her, when they heard more crashing and swearing just outside the door. He quickly raised his wand and the bat.

"Sounds like they moved on to the display cases of rare books," noted Hermione, crossing her arms. "They shouldn't bother with them though. They're unbreakable."

The sound of a heavy bookshelf crashing against another and another and another, accompanied by unmistakable tumble of books had Hermione's anger flaring. "They'll ruin all those books!"

She made to stand up, but her abrupt movements had the world suddenly swaying beneath her, and she sat down heavily, groaning.

"Is it your head?" The man sounded almost concerned. He reached out and placed one hand on her forearm.

"A concussion, I think," she said, rubbing her forehead.

"I'm sorry."

She sighed, closing her eyes, and leaned her head back against the wall. "You're a very unusual robber, you know."

The man didn't say anything, but his companions continued terrorizing Mr. Crakerpot and the bookshop.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" she asked, wanting to focus on something else.

"No. Do you?"

"I don't have a girlfriend either," she replied, grinning.

The man chuckled at that. "How about a boyfriend?"

"Nope. Not anymore." She sniffed. "I can't believe we were engaged even. That was the stupidest move on my part, you know. Can you believe it? He bought me a cubic zirconia ring? He probably thought I wouldn't know, but I did. My aunt owns a jewellery shop. She taught me a thing or two about jewellery."

"I'm glad you aren't vith this man anymore," he said. There was something dark in his tone.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. "Me too." She laughed. "Plus, I realized very quickly I couldn't marry a man without a bookshelf."

"No bookshelf?"

"None. Not even a tiny, little one. In fact, he didn't have _any_ books in his flat. Not even bloody Hogwarts textbooks. He said he donated them all, but I have a suspicion he might have burned them."

"I have a big bookshelf," he said proudly. "I like to read."

"Good for you."

"Many people I know don't read books," he said sadly.

She looked at him, shocked. "How can one _not_ read books? I mean, obviously, it happens. Look at my ex-fiance . . . But that tells a lot about one's character though, don't you think? I'm glad I didn't marry him. I really am. I don't miss him at all. I feel like –"

"Shhh!" He leapt to his feet and made his way to the door.

"What?" she whispered, standing up very slowly.

The man motioned for her to stay still and then stuck half of his body out the door. Hermione could hear a rapid-fire conversation in another language she couldn't quite recognize.

 _Russian? Bulgarian? Serbian?_

The man with the stocking turned back to her. "Igor says I must . . . abuse you to make your boss give up the information."

"Oh, he won't care. You see, Mr. Crakerpot doesn't like me much. He only keeps me around because I know everything, learn quickly, and have a really good work ethic."

He closed the door and lowered his voice. "Can you cry? Pretend like I'm hurting you? Then maybe something vill happen?"

She shrugged. "If it'll help. But I doubt it will."

"Really. Just try. Please. I don't vant to have to . . . you know . . ."

Hermione sighed. She took a deep breath and shouted, "A-a-a-a, please, stop! You're hurting me! Stop! Someone, help me!"

He shook his head resignedly. "This is no good."

She crossed her arms. "Well, what did you expect? I haven't exactly got much practice. I've always been terrible at acting."

He glanced around and picked up a box nearby and then hurled it across the room. Hermione winced as it crashed against the wall.

"You need to sound scared, terrified." He picked up another box and threw it too.

"But I'm not terrified!" she protested in a whisper. "I mean, you are tall and strong and a little intimidating, but I'm not afraid of you. I don't think you'll hurt me."

"You don't know anything about me," he said, his voice low, as he approached her.

He halted a mere foot in front of her and towered above her. "I could hurt you. Really."

He swung the Beater's Bat and brought it down on another box. Something shattered inside it.

"Wow. You're really getting into this thing, aren't you? I think your smashing skills would rival Hulk's . . . or Bamm-Bamm's . . ."

He took another step closer, invading her personal space. "I don't know any Hulk or Bamm-Bamm."

"I suppose you wouldn't," she breathed, stepping back against the wall.

"Are you scared of me yet?" he whispered, stepping forward once more.

"Well, it's . . . definitely . . . um . . ."

He dropped his bat and, swiftly, they kissed.

He pulled back and looked at her. "You . . . are unbelievable. Your ex-fiance is an idiot."

She let out a small laugh. "I know that."

They stared at each other for a moment.

"I've never kissed anyone through a stocking before," she confessed.

"It is quite . . . strange."

"Very. Can I just . . . um . . . tear a small hole, just so our lips can meet?"

She used her fingernails to create a small hole, and then pressed her lips against his.

Once they pulled away, slightly breathless, he brought his fingers to his nose. The hole had grown, revealing most of his face.

He said something that might have been a curse in his native language. "Vhat am I going to do now?"

"Don't worry," said Hermione cheerily, hitching up her skirt. "You can use one of mine."

He stood, spellbound, as she peeled one from her leg.

Hermione blushed. "Um . . . It's really nice to see your face. You look quite handsome, Mr. Ro –"

"Viktor," he cut her off. "I'm Viktor."

"Well, Viktor, shall I put this on for you then?"

He merely nodded. She kissed him once more before gently sliding the stocking over his head.

"I can't see anything," he said.

"Oh, that'll be because they are a hundred denier. Let me see if I can just pull it tighter over here . . ." she trailed off, moving around behind him.

"Vhat are you doing?"

"I'm very sorry for this."

"For vhat?"

"This." She picked up the Beater's Bat and brought it down upon his head.

* * *

"So," said Harry as he and Hermione exited the lift on Level 2 and walked towards one of the detention rooms at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement . "Are you ready to view the lineup?"

"Oh, yes, quite ready."

Harry waved his wand, and the wall of the detention room became transparent.

"Hm," she turned to Harry, her index finger tapping on her lower lip. "It's hard to tell without their stockings on."

Harry looked at her, bewildered. "Stockings?"

"On their faces," she replied, rolling her eyes. "I'm ninety-nine point nine percent sure without, but if I saw them wearing them, I could be one hundred percent sure."

"Fine," agreed Harry.

Stockings were organized. Hermione seemed quite amused by that.

"Number three," Hermione said. "He's the one who hurt me and then Mr. Crakerpot. And number four. He's the one who set up the wards."

"Anyone else?"

She gazed through the glass. "No. That's all."

"You absolutely sure? Your manager seems to think there were three of them."

"Oh no, there were just two. Definitely. The only other man in the shop was a customer, as I said before. An early bird. He came to buy the special edition of _Quidditch Through the Ages_. He told me so in that storage room while we were untying each other. Nice bloke."

Harry massaged his temples. "Mr. Crakerpot was insistent. Three men, he said."

"Well, he did take quite a hit to the head, didn't he?" she replied, shrugging her shoulders. She stepped closer and lowered her voice. "And between you and me, his eyesight is quite terrible. All that reading of those books with small font size." She smiled. "Can I go now?"

"Fine." Harry sighed. "Are we still on for dinner tonight?"

"Absolutely!" She kissed him on the cheek before practically dancing away towards the lift, her curls bouncing as she went. "Wouldn't miss it for the world!"

Harry stared at his best friend's retreating form, thinking that she was behaving rather oddly.

* * *

"Are you ready?" Viktor asked, unfolding his long legs and getting up from the park bench with a smile. "You look lovely, Herm-own-ninny."

She beamed at him. "Thank you." She lifted a hand to her hair a bit self-consciously. "I had my photograph taken for the _Daily Prophet_. They're writing an article about me stopping the robbery and saving a customer." She rolled her eyes.

"You certainly saved me."

She lifted a hand and ran her fingers over the bump on his head. "How's your head?"

"Fine." Viktor took her fingers and kissed them.

"Where do you want to go?" she asked, twining her fingers through his as they walked down the street.

"The library?"

She nearly blinded him with her bright smile. "I knew I liked you," she said, standing on her toes and planting a kiss on his cheek.


End file.
